Mr Average
by r4ven3
Summary: Harry is away from the Grid - AWOL, gone dark - and no-one knows where he is or why. Lucas has been left in charge of the team, and that can't be a good thing. So, what should Ruth do? A fic of 7 chapters only, set late-ish in S9.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N:** **I anticipate this being my last fic - other than the possibility of a one-shot here and there, and perhaps one more crossover fic with the Ruth Galloway novels - so I am beginning posting this in time for it to be completed by Christmas. I wish to thank the many readers of my work over the past 6+ years, and especially those who have been consistent and encouraging in their reviewing. As Sigma Creations once said, reviews are the currency with which we fic writers get paid.**_

* * *

The Grid - early September 2010:

"But I thought you knew."

Ruth can't believe she's hearing this. She stares up at Lucas, who looms over her, casting a dark shadow across her side of the desk. She'd hate to meet him in a dark alley late at night; he might be an attractive man, but he has a distinct aura of menace about him.

"But you're his Section Chief. You're the one _in charge_."

Ruth immediately regrets the emphasis she'd placed on the last two words, effectively casting doubt over the man's leadership skills. Lucas is barely in charge of himself these days, and the faith Harry has clearly shown by leaving him in charge of the Grid is a case of misplaced optimism.

"So I've been told," he replies snappily. "It's just that he said he'd be away for anything up to a week, and that I should ensure the Grid keeps running. Those were his instructions. I just thought ... never mind," and he turns away from her.

"What did you think?" Ruth's words, spoken quietly, have the power to turn Lucas' attention back to her.

"I thought, given your relationship with Harry, that he would have confided in you."

"There is no relationship between us .. at least, not in the way you're inferring."

Lucas stares at her, but Ruth isn't budging. If he wants to know more, she needs him to work for it. Their eyes each hold the other's, and Lucas looks away first. Ruth turns her attention back to her monitor. She hears him cross the floor towards the doorway. Lucas is leaving. They both know that the Grid will run perfectly well without him. Once he disappears through the doorway, Ruth waits a couple of heartbeats before she sits back in her chair, allowing a long sigh to leave her.

She has little idea where Harry might have gone. He hadn't confided in her. It's almost five months since the events following Ros' death had left a wide, weeping wound between them, never cleaned and sutured, never having been kissed better. They had worked side by side as usual, ignoring his marriage proposal and her curt reply, he consulting her, she offering her considered opinion. All was as if the event had never happened. `We move on from this', he'd said sagely. They'd not even managed to salve the sore that was his clear love for her, and her rejection of that love, so how could they possibly move on? It's not that she doesn't care for him. She cares for him far too much to risk marrying him. To bind herself to him in marriage only to lose him - under any circumstances - would be a wrench from which she'd likely never recover. And were she the one to be lost to him, Harry would likely lose the will to go on. She can't do that to him, and she can't do it to herself. Nor has she shared with him her real reason for turning down his suggestion of marriage. To do so would be to raise his hopes, hopes which are poorly placed, hopes which in all probability provide the fuel which ensures he still lives and breathes.

She glances towards Harry's office to see it in darkness. She misses his presence. She misses the wrinkling of his brow when he's worried, his fingers pressed hard against his skin, his eyes dark with some dreaded possibility he'll eventually share with his Section Chief. It is Harry's clear humanity which has her holding him above all others. Beneath the bluster and the moods and the posturing Harry cares about his country, and more importantly, he cares about its people. Wherever it is he has gone, there will be something, or someone he cares about, and this person or persons will need him ... more than the Grid needs him, and more than she needs him. Ruth doesn't wish to contemplate the possible identity of this person-in-need. Besides, it's none of her business, just as Harry is none of her business.

The sharp ringing of her desk phone draws her back into the present.

"Hello?"

"Ruth," says Tariq, "there's something I think you should see."

Ruth glances towards the technology suite to see Tariq, phone against his ear, his dark eyes on her. She can't determine his mood, but were she to take a guess, she would have to say that Tariq appears worried.

* * *

"Lucas asked me to check the location of Harry's phone," Tariq begins, lifting his eyes momentarily as Ruth takes the chair beside his own. Ruth rather likes Tariq. He is an uncomplicated man working side-by-side with a number of overly complicated men. He enjoys his job, and happens to be very good at it. "Even when his phone is turned off, I can trace it."

"What if he's using an untraceable phone?" she asks.

"I can do nothing about that," Tariq replies, his eyes on his monitor, "but I've found his office phone."

He says nothing more, so Ruth leans closer, her eyes on his monitor, where a green dot flashes. "Which is where?"

Tariq leans back, stretching his arms in front of him. "Keep in mind that he may have left his phone in this spot to put us off the scent ... or not. He took off in a rush, so I'm guessing he hadn't planned too far ahead."

Ruth waits. She knows he will tell her eventually. And he does.

"It's in Essex," he says, turning to glance at her.

" _Essex_! Why Essex?"

"I can't help you there. The location is Landsby. It's a small village outside Maldon ... on the River Blackwater, with views of Northey and Osea Islands."

"I suspect he's not there for the scenery," Ruth muses.

"Have you any idea why he might be there?" Tariq asks.

"None."

"The thing is," Tariq continues, "that phone has been stationary, in that particular building off the square, for the whole day ... which means -"

"He could be dead."

"Or ... he could have left it there, while heading off to somewhere else entirely." He picks up a pen, placing the non-writing end between his teeth. "For all we know, he could he in Paris .. or Amsterdam."

"Nice for some," Ruth muses as she sits back, chewing the corner of her fingernail. It's unlike Harry to go dark without informing his team, or at the very least, his Section Chief. Her phone rings from inside the pocket in her jacket. She grabs it, answering without checking the identity of the caller.

"I've been thinking," she hears Lucas say, "and the longer I think about it, the more I think that almost four days is rather a long time for Harry to be out of communication with the team."

"I agree. Tariq has found his phone," and Ruth tells Lucas about Tariq's findings. She waits while Lucas thinks some more.

"I take it someone has tried calling him," Lucas says.

"Tariq tried a few times, but the calls went straight to voicemail."

"It could be turned off," Lucas muses.

"I think that's likely." Ruth hesitates before sharing with Lucas something which has been on her mind. "Shouldn't someone ... go to investigate? It's only an hour away, and it's possible he's in trouble." Ruth pushes aside images of Harry, trussed like a chicken ready for roasting, his legs, arms and eyes bound.

"I'll arrange a pool car for you, Ruth."

" _Me_? I'm not a field agent."

"Maybe not, but you've known Harry for longer than anyone else on the team, and he trusts you."

Ruth considers for a moment that she should have kept her thoughts to herself. "Why can't Alec go? Or Dimitri?" Even Beth would be a better bet than her.

"They're both doing surveillance for the next few days, and I can't spare them. I'll arrange a car for you," and then he hangs up. Great. What has she talked herself into?

* * *

Landsby appears to be a village trapped in a time warp. Ruth parks the pool car in a side street next to the one and only pub, and enters the square, its shape more rhomboid than square. Along the short side is the village pub - The Landsby Arms - and along the long side are a row of shops - a Co-op, a bakery, hairdresser, and an Indian restaurant. Tariq had messaged her a map of the square, along with a star on the location of Harry's phone. She stands on the hotel corner, gazing around the square. It is past mid-afternoon, and yet only one person crosses the cobblestoned square - an old man accompanied by a border collie dog - on his way towards the hotel.

Across the square to her left is the building inside which Harry has left his phone. The building, like all others around the square is built from light grey stone, and like the hotel, is of two storeys. She could try to gain entry to the building, or she could firstly engage in some reconnaissance. She wanders along the pavement in front of the hotel until she reaches the main entrance. Once inside, she enters a darkened lobby. She is about to ring the bell on the desk when a blond-haired woman of around her own age enters from the passageway.

"Can I help you?" the woman asks.

"I'm hoping you can," Ruth says, immediately stepping inside her legend, the one Tariq had hurriedly concocted for her before she'd left Thames House. "I'm looking for my husband."

The blond woman smiles. "That makes a pleasant change. Most women who come in here are aiming to get shot of theirs."

"He's ... he said he was getting away for a few days. We had a fight, you see. It was then that I threw away my wedding ring, and he -"

"You don't have to give me a blow by blow. I've heard it all before. The last woman who wandered in here in search of her hubby had a knife stashed in her bag."

The woman is smiling, so may not be telling the truth, but Ruth's response is one of shock. "I might be mad at him, but I have no intention of causing him harm."

"I can see that. If you tell me his name it might not mean anything, but a description would help."

"He's ..." Ruth hesitates, wondering how best to describe Harry. She decides to put aside her own personal feelings in favour of the truth. "He's older than me ... blond hair, balding -"

"That describes half the men in the county."

"He's in his late fifties, and ... depending on the angle from which you look at him, he's a little overweight."

"Does he have eyes that look right into you?" the woman asks, placing her palm over her heart.

"You've seen him?"

"Not for a day or two, but I know where he's staying."

"He's not staying here?"

"No," the woman says, regretfully, Ruth thinks. Maybe she's rescuing Harry just in time. "I sent him to my brother's establishment across the square. It's called Fisherman's Rest, although we're short on fishermen around here. He lets small, self-contained apartments on short-term lease, and now that school is about to begin, everyone's gone home. The hotel does good trade all year round, but his place tends to empty about now. Ask for Craig, and tell him Julie sent you."

So Ruth thanks Julie, and heads across the square to Fisherman's Rest. There, she is met by a mid-forties man with a crew cut and even teeth, as he steps from his office to greet her. He could be CIA, but she suspects her imagination is working overtime.

"I'm looking for my husband," she says, "and Julie told me he's staying here."

"Which one is he?" Craig asks, smiling. "The dark-haired, chubby one with the ready laugh, or Mr Average middle-aged executive with an attitude?"

Mr _Average!_ Harry would be insulted, just as Ruth is mildly insulted on his behalf. "The middle-aged executive," she says. "I'd like to surprise him."

"Well," Craig says, scratching his scalp, "I can't let you into his apartment without his permission, but you can wait in there."

Craig shows her into a warm and comfortable living room, where there are two sofas, and several armchairs. In one corner is a TV, which is turned off, and along one wall is a book shelf bursting with books and magazines. Ruth already has a book in her bag, just in case she is faced with a situation such as this. She thanks Craig, and makes herself comfortable in an armchair. When Craig brings her a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits, she nods and smiles. Craig is a lovely man, and she finds herself wondering whether he is married, or partnered.

 _Silly woman_ , she thinks, knowing that any man who can make a decent cup of tea, and arrange biscuits on a plate has probably already been taken.

* * *

A little over an hour passes before Ruth hears the rumble of male voices from along the hallway. When she hears a voice which sounds like Harry's, Ruth places a bookmark between the pages of her book, before tucking it back into her bag. Only moments later, footsteps approach the living room, and she looks up to see Craig standing in the doorway, his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets. As before, he is smiling.

"Your husband asked me to send you up to his apartment," he says, before scratching the back of his head, making a sound like rubbing sandpaper.

Ruth nods. "He doesn't want a public scene," she says by way of explanation.

"Good job, too," answers Craig. "Landsby is a quiet village." He nods towards the stairs. "Your other half is in Apartment 3 ... right at the other end."

* * *

When the door to Apartment 3 opens Harry stands there, his face giving nothing away, before he steps aside, allowing her entry. He is dressed casually in slacks and an open-necked shirt, the sleeves rolled to just below his elbows. She takes this in before stepping past him into the room. Glancing around her, Ruth sees a generously sized living room, at one end of which is a small kitchen. Doors lead off each end of the living room to which she supposes are bedrooms.

Having sized up her immediate environment, she turns to see Harry watching her.

"You took your time," he says. "I expected you yesterday at the latest."

"Why expect _me_? Why not Lucas, or Alec?"

"Because neither man is curious enough to believe I might be in trouble."

"And are you? In trouble, I mean."

The shake of his head is very slight, before he points her in the direction of two chairs at a small round table beneath the window. "Tea? Coffee?"

"A coffee would be nice, thanks."

Once they are sitting at the table, Ruth carefully observes him, attempting to gauge his mood. Thus far he has surprised her. At the very least she'd expected him to be irritated with her, even angry, but the opposite appears true.

"You're not wearing a wedding ring," he says, glancing at her left hand.

"I told Craig's sister that I was so angry with you that I threw it away, and now I can't find it."

Harry nods slowly. "Very creative," he says, before taking a sip of his coffee.

"Harry," she says carefully, once she has placed her mug of coffee on the table, "what's going on?"

He pushes his coffee mug away from him before sitting back in his chair. Then he watches Ruth closely, as if assessing her. "What I am about to tell you is for your ears only."

"What if it had been Alec who turned up here? Or Lucas, or Beth?"

"I would have reprimanded them, and instructed them to return to London immediately."

Ruth is confused. "You _expected_ me to come?"

Harry nods, and for the first time since he'd opened the door to her, his mouth softens in a smile. "It seems I know you better than you know yourself." His voice is deep and honeyed, and Ruth feels a shiver pass through her body. Only Harry has the power to affect her in this way.

He suddenly gets up from his chair, entering the small kitchen space, where he opens a drawer to take out his work phone before turning it on. By the time the phone boots, he is again sitting at the table, scrolling through his messages.

"My trip to Essex on Monday morning was as a result of having received this text message."

He hands the phone to Ruth, who reads the message once, twice, and then a third time.

"But ..." she says, hesitating before she continues, "that's impossible ... isn't it?"

"Define impossible."


	2. Chapter 2

Harry's text message tone had sounded soon after he'd woken on Monday morning. He'd been in that elusive, not-quite-awake state, thinking of Ruth, and how she appeared to be softening towards him. He'd hoped the message had been from her - something conciliatory, something soothing, a balm offering him some small shred of hope.

But the message hadn't been from Ruth. It had been blunt, just five words - _I need to see you_ \- and the name at the end of the message had belonged to a dead woman. He'd sat up in bed, stunned and in shock, instantly awake. His instinct had been to reply to the message with a call, but had it been her - or not - the call would have gone unanswered, so he'd replied in the tone of the spy he is.

 _How do I know you're who you claim to be?_ he'd written, pressing Send before he'd had a chance to change his mind. Having sent the message he'd contemplated the dubious wisdom of rising to the bait.

He was in the shower when he again heard his message tone, so he quickly rinsed his hair, and turned off the water. He'd dried himself before flinging on his dressing gown, not bothering to close it, hurrying to his bedside table to read the message.

 _Ruth regards me as the one responsible for her having to go into exile._

Harry had considered how many people knew this, and he could count them on the fingers of one hand. Most of those who knew this were dead, but not all. He typed a quick reply.

 _So tell me something else, something only you would know_ , and then he waited. The reply took so long that he gave up waiting and dressed for the day, checking that his keys were in his pocket. He was about to slide his phone into the pocket of his jacket when again he heard the message tone.

 _Only you know that I was grooming Andrew. We both needed to know the truth about his connection with Nightingale._

Harry reads the message for the third time before he sends off a brief reply. _Very well. What next?_

Even then, he hadn't expected the person on the other end of his electronic conversation to be Ros. He'd deemed it impossible that she had survived the bombing.

* * *

Ruth listens while he relates the story of his contact with a woman they'd both believed had died, a woman whose funeral they had attended together. He tells her of how Ros had tried to get Andrew to safety, but he'd been paralysed, so at the last minute she had left him, choosing instead to burst through the door to the fire escape, a decision which had saved her life, but had left her badly injured, and still in recovery.

"Had she stayed with Andrew for even another few seconds she would have died along with him."

"But ..." Ruth says, having difficulty absorbing the information, "wasn't her body found next to his?"

"It was assumed the other body belonged to Ros. There were a couple of people - one a woman - who'd not heard the alarm, and had only entered the hallway just before the bomb detonated."

"I thought the remains were DNA tested."

"I suspect that was another cover up." Harry reaches out to take back his phone before he again turns it off. "Or maybe it was an oversight. Things were ... chaotic in the aftermath. Ros has little idea how she got out. She remembers taking the steps of the fire escape three or four at a time, and her next memory is of waking up in an ambulance bound for The North Middlesex University Hospital."

Ruth is frustrated by the sketchiness of Harry's information. As usual, she wants details. "You know I'm going to ask why take her all the way to North London."

Harry sighs heavily. He barely knows why himself. "She was taken by a couple of Six operatives who were at the scene. Keep in mind that whatever happened to her, it was on the far side of the hotel, and so there were no witnesses from our section."

Ruth nods. Silently, she wonders how long Ros had been planning her escape to Six, and whether it had even been her idea. She suspects not. She glances up to see Harry watching her, his eyes soft. How does he do that - flipping from business to the personal in a matter of seconds?

"I'm glad you're here," he says quietly.

"What happens now?"

Business-like again, Harry sits up, leaning his forearms on the edge of the table, while with the fingers of one hand he fiddles with the handle of his coffee mug. Ruth has only seen him take one mouthful of his drink. "You'll need to stay over for at least one night," he says, watching her carefully.

"Where?"

"There's a spare room in this apartment. I have -"

"So all along this has been a ruse to get me on your own, away from London."

"I'm afraid I hadn't considered that possibility, Ruth, but had I, even I would be shocked by my own level of deception. No, that's not why I needed you here. Ros wishes to speak to you."

" _Me_ .. why? She and I were never friends."

"She didn't share the reason with me."

"And if I don't see her?"

"I've no idea, but I'm sure she'll get over it."

"Where is she?" Ruth asks, admitting to herself that she's rather curious about the strange reemergence of Ros Myers.

"At a farmhouse on the edge of the saltmarsh. It's around five miles from here. Since she's not going anywhere any time soon, I thought we could go there tomorrow. I've been visiting her each day. She has physiotherapy each morning, leaving her afternoons free."

"Who is with her ... in this farmhouse?" Ruth asks.

"The house belongs to a couple I only know as Howard and Gail. As well as being farmers, they are assets. There's an indoor pool, and Ros spends part of each morning swimming laps. She shared with me that after she leaves there she may never want to swim again."

"You've been there every day since you left London?" Harry nods. "That's a lot of talking."

"She took a while to tell me ... what she told me."

Clearly, there is a secret surrounding Ros - where's she's been for the past few months, why she was spared, and by whom. "Very well," Ruth says, taking her eyes from Harry. "I'll see her."

* * *

Ruth is relieved that she'd thought to bring extra clothes, just in case she had to stay over. She retrieves the pool car from the lane beside the pub, parking it in the yard behind the Fisherman's Rest. While Harry goes out to pick up a takeaway meal from the Bombay Kitchen, the Indian restaurant across the square, Ruth puts in a quick call to Lucas.

"Is he alright?" Lucas asks, sounding genuinely concerned. "Not flipped his lid or anything?"

"Harry's fine. This is not related to any current operation, so ... he won't be reporting it to the Grid. It's to do with someone from his past."

"An old girlfriend, then."

"No. An operative from years ago who requires his ... expertise." Harry had made it clear to her that the truth about Ros must not trickle through to the Grid. "I'm staying for a day or so to help him through it ..." Lucas meets her news with silence. Ruth can imagine what is passing through the man's mind. ".. as his analyst," she adds, then closes her eyes, wishing she'd kept the last three words to herself. Still, Lucas is the one who had sent her to this place, and what he thinks of her and Harry being here together is hardly any of his business.

Harry has already shown her to her room, a roomy bedroom with three single beds.

"I think this is meant to be a kids' room," Harry had explained, as he'd stood awkwardly in the doorway, while Ruth had glanced around the room, wondering which bed would be the most comfortable.

"It's a good thing there's a spare room," she'd said, perhaps unnecessarily.

"I'll leave you to get comfortable," he'd replied, leaving in rather a hurry.

Once they've eaten, they take their wine, and sit on comfortable armchairs in the living area. Harry asks about the Grid, and Ruth briefs him on the events of the week so far. Even though they are only a little over an hour's drive from London, Ruth feels like she's stepped into a different dimension. Here she is with Harry, sharing a space with him, while only a few miles away Ros Myers is alive, and about to embark on another phase of the life they'd both - until now - believed had ended.

"I feel strange," Ruth says aloud.

"How do you mean?"

She'd like to say that it feels strange to be sitting across from Harry, with him being soft and gentle, and even lost for words. While she'd known him to have a gentler side, he'd never been short of clever remarks; he normally had one for almost every occasion.

"Us here, and Ros not far away. I'm having difficulty absorbing it. And this village is about as different from London as it's possible to be."

This time he lifts his eyes to watch her, while Ruth gazes at his hands as they cradle his glass of red wine, wondering (dangerously, perhaps) how it would feel to have those hands caressing the bare skin of her stomach. It is when she imagines his fingers sliding down her stomach until they reach her pubic hair that she glances up to see a soft knowing in his own eyes.

"Don't expect goblins and fairies, Ruth. Landsby is just a village which time forgot, other than the takeaway, which does a decent tandoori."

Ruth hopes Harry hadn't noticed the flush which had moved up from her neck to her cheeks when he'd caught her staring at his hands. Hopefully she has bluffed her way through that, and for the remainder of their time here she can maintain at least the pretense of professionalism.

"I think I might turn in," she says at last.

"But it's only nine-thirty."

"I brought a book, and I'm rather enjoying it."

Harry nods, but she's sure he appears disappointed. Little does he know that the book is a dry tome on analysing voices and sentence construction, including the unconscious choice of words. Rather than wanting to read it, Ruth _needs_ to read it, professional development being important to her.

"Goodnight, Harry," she says on her way through the living room from the bathroom. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Goodnight, Ruth."

* * *

Straight after lunch the next day they drive to the farm beside the saltmarsh. The house of two storeys is constructed from the same pale grey stone as many of the shops and houses in the village. Behind the farmhouse are several outbuildings, one of which stands out as having been constructed in the twenty-first century, a sturdy, low shed of concrete and steel.

Harry parks his car at the side of the house, "That's Howard's", he says, nodding towards a battered Land Rover parked beside his car. "That means he's inside having lunch."

"What do they do here," Ruth asks, glancing across at him, "apart from rehabilitating injured spies?"

"Goats."

"What? Breed them?"

"I suppose they do a bit of that, but mostly they milk them, then make cheese. This farm is known for it's goats' milk and goats' cheese." He then turns to her and watches her for a few seconds. "Whatever you do, Ruth, don't ask Howard about his goats. He'll bore you silly with details you have no need to know."

Ruth nods. "Understood," she says.

They are shown inside by a slightly built woman of around Ruth's age, whom Harry introduces as Gail.

"Your girl is in the conservatory," Gail says, pointing towards the back of the house. "She's just finishing her lunch."

As they walk down a long passageway towards the back of the house, Ruth turns towards Harry. "Gail called Ros a girl. I doubt she was ever a girl."

She watches Harry's face as he lifts one side of his mouth before turning towards her. "I'll see her for a minute first, Ruth, while you wait in here."

He has led her to a large room where all four walls are lined with bookshelves. A narrow beam of autumn light shines through one narrow window which runs the length of one wall above the bookshelves. "You can read about the joys of keeping goats," he says, leaning so close to her that a whiff of his cologne tickles her nostrils. She notices that his attention is on her mouth, so she turns her head away from him, although she can still feel the heat from his body, so close to her own. His hand grasps her elbow, preventing her from moving away. Even had she wanted to, and she doesn't, escape is impossible.

"Well," says a familiar voice from behind them, "I see nothing much has changed."

Harry drops his hand from her elbow, and they both turn to see a wheelchair blocking the doorway. With her mouth set in a half-smile, and one eyebrow lifted, Ros Myers looks from Ruth to Harry, and then back to Ruth.

"Sorry if I interrupted anything," she says smoothly, "but this thing hasn't a working warning device."

"Ros -" Harry begins, taking a step towards her.

Ros holds up her hand, effectively stopping him from coming any closer. "Harry, why don't you brush up on goat husbandry while Ruth and I have a chat."

And so Ruth steps forward to follow Ros and her wheelchair into the conservatory. As she leaves the library, Ruth glances over her shoulder to see Harry standing in the middle of the room with his mouth open, having once more been brought to his knees by Ros Myers.


	3. Chapter 3

The conservatory overlooks the indoor pool, the two spaces separated by a sliding glass door. Ruth sits in a chair across from Ros, who had already stood up to hobble to the glass doors to close them. "I could have done that," Ruth says. "You only had to ask."

"You know me, Ruth. Stubborn as a mule."

Ruth finds herself smiling. It appears Harry likes his women stubborn. She suspects he likes and respects women who are prepared to stand up to him.

"I take it Harry has told you the story of how I survived," Ros begins, having run out of small talk.

"Just the bare bones."

"There are a couple of reasons for wanting to see you before you return to London. Firstly, I want to apologise for my role in you being exiled in 2006 -"

"So why didn't you apologise before ... the bombing?"

"I always meant to. I knew as soon as you left London, and Harry was so ... lost .. that I had made the wrong call. I'd wanted to hurt Harry, and I succeeded, but at great cost, both to him and the section. I've already apologised to him. And while he didn't take my apology with much grace, I can't say I blame him."

Ruth nods. She'll think about it. She's not convinced that Ros's apology is heartfelt. "What is the real reason you wanted to see me?"

Ros's whole body visibly relaxes. With the palms of her hands she hits the armrests on her wheelchair. "As you can see, I'm stuck in this thing for the time being, but once I'm up and about, I've been offered a posting in the US, and -"

"What exactly is wrong with you? Why are you in that chair?"

"Didn't Harry tell you?" When Ruth shakes her head, Ros continues. "He told me he'd shared my whole story with you."

"He did, but he hadn't given details about your injuries."

"Well ..." Ros says carefully, "apparently I fell quite a distance. No-one knows how far, since there were no witnesses. I suffered a broken pelvis, and two broken legs, the left one in two places. One of the fractures was compound, and I'm told I was lucky the leg wasn't amputated. My recovery has been slow. Apparently I have an attitude problem." Ruth drops her eyes to hide her smile. To her mind both Harry and Ros have attitude problems. "The physiotherapist assigned to me says I should think happy thoughts," Ros continues. "I told him to break his pelvis and both his legs, and then see how happy he feels."

Ruth thinks Ros has a point. "So what is it you want me to do?" she asks. "I'm assuming it involves analysis."

Ros nods. "It is. I need you to find everything you can on a former Mi6 agent by the name of Glenn Smallwood. I have no other details on him, other than he says he was born in Leeds, and he's around forty. I'm sorry that's so sketchy, but I didn't want to scare him off by interrogating him. What he's offering is likely to be the best thing that's ever happened to me, or ... it may be the worst."

Ruth nods. She'd taken a pen and paper from inside her bag, and written down the details Ros had given her. "Did you ..." she begins carefully, "ever discover whether Andrew Lawrence was patriot or traitor?"

Ros takes a long time to answer, so long that Ruth suspects she doesn't wish to discuss the subject. Ros stares through the glass doors towards the swimming pool, although it's possible her eyes are not seeing the same thing Ruth sees. When Ros again turns back to her, Ruth can see sadness in her eyes.

"I had to do it, you know," Ros says quietly. "There was no sense in both of us dying. Andrew couldn't move, so I left and ... got out ... with my life."

"I'm not sitting here in judgement of you, Ros."

"Aren't you?" Ros says sharply, her eyes moist with either anger or unshed tears, perhaps both.

"I can't imagine what that day was like for you." This time it is Ruth who waits before she continues. "I only know that had it been me, and had the man with me been Harry, I would have stayed with him, no matter what."

Ruth is so shocked by her own open declaration that she turns to look through the glass doors, but like Ros had before her, she doesn't see the lap pool and the fold-up chairs. She sees Harry lying helpless, unable to walk, unable to move, his eyes pleading, while he begs her to leave him there. She could never have done it. She silently acknowledges that she'd rather die by his side than face a life spent without him. This fundamental truth shatters her, but she can't show Ros how affected she's been by their conversation.

"But I wasn't in love with Andrew, Ruth."

While Ros's voice is whisper quiet, her words echoes like a bell inside Ruth's head. She longs to offer protest, to say she's not in love with Harry, but they both know that's not true. "But ... I thought you were sweet on him," she says, equally as quietly.

"I can't deny that I liked him. Most politicians I've had to deal with were narcissistic self-promoters, as well as universally unattractive. I found Andrew to be a breath of fresh air, but his promotion to Home Secretary struck an odd chord with me, and was one of the reasons I was keeping an eye on him. It was likely he was on the fast track to the very top, although whether he was buying his way there with information is still unknown ... at least to me. With him dead we'll never know the truth."

"Mmm," Ruth muses. As well as a task to begin once she is back in London, Ruth has much to think about, and she can't do it while sitting with this woman. While the hotel bombing and it's aftermath was shocking, it had not smoothed the sharp edges of Ros's personality. Ruth still feels exposed and vulnerable in her presence. "If that's all you need from me ..." she begins.

"It is, and if you want anything clarified, this is my phone number," and Ros rattles off the number of her pay-as-you-go phone. When Ruth has the number keyed into her own phone, she stands, ready to leave.

"I'll let you know when I have anything on the man you mentioned."

"There's no hurry," Ros says. "I won't be going anywhere for at least another couple of months. I know Harry wants to see me before I head to the US, and I'd be happy if you joined him."

"Of course," Ruth takes the hand Ros offers, shaking it briefly. She knows that by asking her to visit again with Harry Ros has offered her a conciliatory gesture, one that she should take. She also knows that within the subtext of Ros's offer is the suggestion that she open herself to the possibility of an intimate relationship with Harry. Well, she's not about to go there just because Ros thinks it's a good idea, and might make Harry happy. However she _might_ consider her suggestion because it's time, and both she and Harry deserve some happiness together.

When she rejoins Harry in the library, she finds him in conversation with a tall, angular man of around his own age. Harry introduces her to Howard, husband of Gail. Ruth covers her surprise rather well. After all, why shouldn't a woman of Gail's age be attracted to a man of Howard's age? Howard has warm brown eyes and a full head of brown hair, flecked with grey. As she shakes the hand he offers, she finds his hand to be large and warm.

"Your turn now," she says to Harry, who quickly leaves the library to join Ros in the conservatory.

"Let me show you where we make the cheese," Howard says brightly, and despite Harry's warning, Ruth smiles and accepts. She tells herself that she's always wanted to know how goats' cheese is made.

* * *

"I think she'll be alright from now on," Harry says, his first words since they'd left the farm.

"She wants me to do a deep search on Glenn Smallwood."

"I know. She told me."

And nothing more is said until they are inside Harry's apartment, and he suggests they eat out. _Eat out_? Ruth feels her shoulders slump. "I have nothing to wear," she says flatly.

Harry stands watching her, wondering how the day had suddenly imploded so spectacularly. "I'd expected a little more enthusiasm than that," he says quietly.

"I haven't anything dressy enough for a night out."

"But ... what about what you're wearing? I'm thinking we should make an appearance at the pub. It's Friday night, Ruth. Let's live a little."

The pub. Why hadn't he said so earlier? She could wear her pyjamas to the pub, and likely no-one would notice. "Alright," she says lamely. "I suppose we have to show the locals that we've patched up our `marriage'."

"We do," he agrees, privately wondering whether a public kiss would be out of the question.

"I'll have first shower then if that's ..." Ruth says, waving one hand in the direction of the bathroom.

"There's no hurry, Ruth."

No, but she has to wash off the day, contemplate how they'd spent the afternoon with a dead woman, who is on a goat farm recovering from catastrophic injuries, before dressing in something which reminds her that she's a woman, with a heart which beats for the man who is watching her, possibly wondering what it is she's thinking.

"I'll go then, shall I?"

* * *

Being Friday night, the pub is busy. Julie is about to join her husband, Ned, behind the bar when she spies the two visitors from London - the rather average middle-aged man with the magnetic eyes, and the blue-eyed woman with a wary disposition. Julie is sure they're not married, but she believes they'd fallen out, and that the woman had tracked him down, determined to patch things up.

"If you're here for a meal, you might prefer the dining room," she says. She leads them through a door, and down a short, dimly-lit corridor to a smaller room where no more than eight tables are arranged.

Harry thanks her, and as she leaves he glances at Ruth. "The table for two in the corner?" he suggests, and she nods.

Their conversation stutters awkwardly, both remembering the last time they'd sat across from one another at the dinner table, a little over four years earlier. So much has changed between them. Ruth was exiled, and while away had settled down with a man and his son; then she'd returned, witnessing the horrifying death of her partner; Jo had died, and then Ros, and Ros is now alive, while Jo is still dead. And so much more.

Oddly, despite all that, _they_ are together again, although not yet quite together. Their conversation only begins to flow once another couple enters the room, heading to the table beside the window. The man nods to them, while the woman smiles. "It was nice out today," she says. "You must visit the island. Osea. It's lovely. We make a special trip each year for the festival." When all they get from Ruth and Harry is a nod and smile, the couple settles at their table, content in their own company.

"I think Ros has lost a lot of confidence," Harry says at last, not quite confident enough himself to raise the topic of where they go from here. He is not an insensitive man. He senses the subtle change between them. Something delicate and unspoken has emerged, a sylphlike, barely tangible possibility of something sweet and oh-so-longed-for. He is not about to sabotage that, so he will tread gently, waiting for Ruth to give him the green light.

"That's not surprising at all," Ruth replies, her fingers fiddling nervously with her napkin. "I can't imagine what it's been like for her."

"I need you to do that search she requested in your own time, Ruth. Your normal work must take priority."

"Of course." Ruth is uncomfortable with the tone of their conversation. While she's aware of a change in Harry - an openness bordering on intimacy - she doesn't wish to spend the whole evening talking shop. "I might hand the search to Tariq. He stays on the Grid until late, so ..."

Harry nods as he grabs the wine bottle, reaching across to top up her glass, before topping up his own. "This is all a bit -"

"- awkward," she finishes for him.

They both smile, each glancing across the table to the other. They are spared further discomfort when their food is delivered. _Thank God_ , Ruth thinks, before she examines, and then tucks into her veal.

They are finishing off the second bottle of red when again Harry raises the subject of Ros.

"I imagine I see her as a daughter," he muses, and Ruth immediately knows of whom he speaks. "I wanted her to do well, to be happy. Her death ... devastated me, so finding that she lived is a miracle." Harry sits back, turning his wine glass around with his fingers. "I imagine I see all my team as my children ... other than you, of course."

"Of course." Ruth glances up at him, but quickly drops her eyes, so intense is his gaze. "I plan to return to London first thing in the morning," she adds, and he nods. Their short interlude away from the Grid is almost over.

* * *

"Would you like a whiskey?" he asks, once he has locked the door of the apartment behind them. He's not quite ready to be saying goodnight to her. "Maybe a tea or coffee?"

"I'll make it," she says, hurrying to the kitchen nook, taking the small teapot from the shelf before adding tea leaves, anything at all to escape his gaze.

Harry watches her from the middle of the living room, and what he does next is the act of a desperate man. As much as he'd like the comfort of a whiskey before bed, he crosses the room to the small kitchen. Given the nature of the work they do, an opportunity such as the one now being offered may never come their way again. Harry can't allow himself the indulgence of hesitation, or questioning the wisdom of what he has in mind. Slowly and carefully he approaches Ruth. He doesn't want to surprise her. He'd rather she be aware of his approach. With the two of them in the kitchen space there is little room for escape.

What happens next surprises him. Sensing him behind her, Ruth turns around, then closes the gap between them before raising one hand to cup his cheek. She then lifts her face and presses her lips to his in a quick kiss. Her intention is clear. The rest will be up to him. He takes another step towards her, pressing her against the counter where she'd been making tea. He slides both arms around her, gazing into her eyes.

"I've been waiting all day for this," she whispers.

His answer is to glide his hands down her back until they reach her buttocks, lifting her to perch on the edge of the counter before he leans into her. He lifts his face towards her, and they kiss, carefully at first, and then with such passion that he almost gasps as they open their mouths to one another. Her hands are at the back of his head, her fingers pushing through his hair, grasping him closer to her as her tongue seeks then finds his. Their breathing is heavy, but neither can hear, so wrapped up are they in each other. They kiss for a long time, and yet it lasts no longer than a heartbeat.

Ruth parts her legs so that he is standing between them, pushing her skirt above her knees so that he can more easily press himself against her. When he feels his body responding quickly, he employs his considerable self control to end the kiss, drawing away from her.

As he opens his eyes he sees fear in Ruth's eyes. "It's alright," he says. "I'd like to continue this some other time. Not here. Not like this." He swallows hard, wondering had he made the wrong call, but no, Ruth is nodding.

He steps back while she slides off the counter to the floor, where she straightens her skirt. "I'll continue making the tea, then, shall I?" she says, her eyes on his elbow, and not his face.

Harry takes a step towards her, grasping one of her hands in his. "You do understand ... don't you?"

Ruth nods. "I understand," and she squeezes his hand before reaching up to place a quick kiss on his lips. "Now, leave me be. The tea won't make itself."

He can't gauge her mood, and he no longer wishes to play the guessing game where Ruth is concerned.

"Ruth," he says, watching her back while she fills the kettle and then turns it on. "Please look at me." When she turns slowly, lifting soulful eyes to his as she leans her back against the very same counter on which she'd sat only a minute or so ago, he sighs heavily. "I don't want you thinking I'm turning you down, because I'm not."

"I know."

He waits several seconds, but she appears to have nothing more to say. "I want us to -"

"I know that, Harry, and I want that also, and like you, I don't want our first time to be a hurried shag on a kitchen counter in a forgotten village in Essex." As the kettle begins hissing she turns to look at it, before turning back to him. "And we now know that we both want the same thing, so I think that represents progress .. don't you?"

He does, so he nods, breathing out his anxiety so that his shoulders sag with the relief. "That's good," is all he can say, as he offers her a weak smile. Harry knows that given their fraught history, what had happened in the last few minutes has been a miracle, and he's not about to waste this opportunity with her.


	4. Chapter 4

After the fleeting sense of liberty she'd experienced while visiting Landsby, Ruth finds the Grid confining, even dull. Worse that that, Harry is busy, having to spend much of his time away from the Grid, attending meetings. On Sunday night he'd rung her, although even now she's not sure why.

"Are you ready for work tomorrow?" he'd asked, and she had hesitated, wondering was there some hidden meaning beneath his words.

"Of course."

"I thought I'd check that -"

".. that I've remembered I have work tomorrow?"

"No, Ruth. I suppose I just wanted to ... hear your voice."

Ruth had then felt just a little bit bad. She is so used to opposing Harry, bristling whenever he moves just a little too close to her, reading her thoughts, or upsetting her equilibrium, that she is not yet used to trusting him, not when his approach is personal. It's so easy for her to overlook how Harry has been hurt, too - by her exile, her return from exile, Ros's death, and then her turning away from him when he'd sought her comfort and support.

"I'm glad you rang," she'd said quietly. "It's nice to ... hear your voice too." And then it had hit her. "You're at work? _Now_?"

"I came in yesterday afternoon also. I'm up to my ears in reports."

Ruth had smiled at the image. She pictured him sitting at his desk, surrounded by a mountain of manila folders, his head poking through the top.

"I'll be in early tomorrow," she continued, "but you need to take a break, Harry. You can't possibly work every day."

"Thursday and Friday wasn't like work," he'd said quietly, and she understood his message, and she'd smiled at her reflection in the mirror above the bathroom sink, where she'd been about to clean her teeth.

"I'm glad you rang," she'd said.

"So am I," he'd said, his voice low and intimate.

* * *

Ruth had handed Tariq the job of checking the identity of Glenn Smallwood, and when that is done she plans to trace all Smallwood's movements during the last two years ... no small task. So when Beth follows her into the women's toilets, Ruth pays little attention, until on emerging from the cubicle she finds Beth still loitering beside the basins.

"I've been trying to get you on your own," Beth says, and Ruth nods, before quickly checking the other three cubicles. "I've found somewhere to live."

"You mean .. somewhere other than my flat."

Beth nods. "Do you remember Brad?" Ruth doesn't, but she nods anyway. "He's offered me his spare room. He needs help with his rent. We're no longer together, but he's a decent sort. He's coming around tonight to help me move my stuff."

And that is one more problem solved. With her and Harry drawing closer to one another, Ruth doesn't want or need a flatmate, especially when that flatmate works with them. Ruth bounces down the corridor towards the Grid, and had she developed the particular skill, she would have whistled.

* * *

It is late Thursday afternoon when Tariq calls her into the technology suite. Most of the Grid's desk staff have gone home, while both Harry and Lucas have spent the day away from the Grid.

Despite Ros's request that Ruth do the search and any resultant analysis required, Tariq, had been happy for the distraction the search for Smallwood's details would provide him.

"Glenn William Smallwood, born 4th May, 1969, in Leeds. All the usual stuff. Good school record, attended University of Leeds, where he completed a Masters in Psychology in 1994. He was recruited directly from university into the intelligence service. It's all a bit ordinary and predictable ... except for one thing."

"And what's that?"

"Glenn William Smallwood died in a motorcycle accident in 1996."

"Right," Ruth says, "so this man, whoever he is, has taken the identity of a dead man."

"It appears that way."

"Then ... that means we're back so square one."

"Not necessarily." Tariq holds up one finger, which he then theatrically places on a key on his keyboard, which opens another window. "Meet Anthony Gresham Smallwood, shady as hell, and twin brother of Glenn Smallwood."

Ruth leans closer, frowning while she examines the image of this man, his handsome face gazing down the lens, his green eyes clear and direct, his wavy brown hair falling loosely to just above his shoulders. "He's quite the looker," she says, and then Tariq's desk phone rings, so she steps away from his monitor, allowing him a little privacy while he takes his call.

Tariq answers the phone, and then quickly hangs up, before turning to Ruth. "Harry wants you in his office immediately," he says, somewhat apologetically, "and for your sake, Ruth, I hope you haven't been stealing the chocolate-covered digestives. They're Harry's favourite."

Ruth nods and smiles. "Leave Harry to me," she says, quickly leaving the technology suite, while Tariq stares after her, his mind ticking over.

* * *

Ruth dispenses with the formality of knocking on Harry's office door. Besides, he'd be shocked were she to knock. Harry is reading reports, his head propped on one hand, as if he can't hold his head up any other way. Hearing the door closing, he lifts his head and watches her cross the office floor, reaching out with one hand to point to one of the chairs across his desk.

"You look tired," she says.

Harry twists his mouth to one side. "I need to sleep, but I also need to get through some of these," he says, glancing at the pile of folders on the corner of his desk.

"They'll still be there in the morning."

Harry sighs, sitting back in his chair, his eyes following Ruth as she sits on the edge of the chair. "You wanted to see me?"

"I always want to see you, Ruth." He holds her eyes for a long moment before sitting back in his chair. "Before returning to the Grid I met Lucas for a drink. What he told me was rather revealling, and I thought it might interest you."

Ruth can't imagine being at all interested in anything Lucas had to say, but she's prepared to listen anyway. She nods.

"During the last week or so Lucas has had several meetings with a man claiming to be a former Mi6 agent. This man has been attempting to recruit Lucas into a team he is forming to head to the US with view to infiltrating the CIA."

Ruth gives a short laugh .. more of a snort. "Good luck with that. Experts have tried and failed. Even the US government hasn't managed to gain control of the CIA, and they've been trying since the Kennedy administration. Surely Lucas already knows that."

Harry nods. "He does, of course. He was gathering information ... just in case." He gets up from his chair, and pours a small whiskey into a glass tumbler. He lifts the decanter towards Ruth. "Want one?"

She shakes her head. "But you go ahead." The last thing she needs is alcohol in her system. She can't risk taking the wrong bus home.

Harry nods, taking a sip from his glass before he moves around to perch his backside on the edge of his desk, close to Ruth's chair. "I thought you might be interested in the name of this Mi6 agent."

Suddenly the penny drops for Ruth. "Glenn Smallwood, or as Tariq discovered, Anthony Smallwood, surviving twin of the long deceased Glenn Smallwood."

Harry nods slowly while he absorbs Ruth's snippet of information. "Lucas let me know just in case this Smallwood character approaches any more of my agents. I suggested he call a meeting tomorrow morning, and make the announcement. Someone like Alec White might be tempted by such an offer."

Ruth nods, looking up at him. He is out on his feet, and were he a more cooperative and malleable man, she'd suggest she drive him home, and put him to bed, but she knows that he'll spend at least another hour at his desk.

"Will you tell Ros, or would you rather I do it?"

Harry carefully places his tumbler on the edge of the desk. "Would you?" he asks. "If you leave it with me I'll most likely forget."

Ruth nods, getting to her feet, and stepping closer to Harry. "Will you promise me something?"

"Promising you anything could cost me dearly, Ruth," he says, gazing at her with open adoration.

She stands close to him, her leg resting against his leg. She finds that touching his body, even in an innocent way, provides her with comfort and much needed grounding. She reaches out to grasp one of his hands, drawing it against her stomach. Watching his face she sees a spark of something in his eyes; she is not sure if it's curiosity or desire. Perhaps it's a little of both.

"Please go home, Harry. Get some sleep. You're no good to anyone if you're exhausted."

While she'd been talking, he'd lifted one finger of the hand she holds against her, slowly stroking her stomach through the material of her blouse, sending a sudden pulse of desire deep into her body. She'd love to step between his legs and kiss him. She almost does, but the Grid is hardly the place for a snog, even late in the evening when everyone but Tariq has left.

Harry stands, retrieving his hand from her grasp so that he can pull her close, his fingers entangled in the fabric of her skirt. "I don't want you to go," he whispers, his mouth close to her ear.

Reluctantly, she pulls a little away from him, although his hands still hold her near him. "I have a bus to catch," she says. The bus timetable is one of those facts of life, and something which rules her working days.

"If you wait a while, I could -"

"No. I need to go now," and she reaches up to place a soft kiss on his cheek, before she steps from his grasp, putting distance between them.

"I was thinking," he says, gazing at her, "that we should do something together Saturday night."

"Beth has moved out of my flat," Ruth says meaningfully, meeting his gaze, "so ..."

Harry nods. "I'll call you ... before Saturday."

Ruth nods, and then leaves his office. If she misses the bus, she has to wait an hour for the next one.

* * *

It is not until Saturday lunchtime, while Ruth is part way through doing her laundry, that she remembers she hasn't contacted Ros about the Smallwood twins. She still has to change the sheets on her bed, hoover the floors, and then spruce herself up for the evening with Harry. He had rung her the evening before, confirming their date for that night. He would be bringing dinner, while she had promised to provide the wine. She hadn't yet bought the wine, but she believes she has ample time.

She dreads ringing Ros, so she makes the call, rattling off the story of the Smallwood twins. Ros replies with her usual sarcasm, and Ruth knows her well enough to recognise that her anger results from a deep core of hurt and betrayal.

"Had he told me his plan was to infiltrate the bloody CIA I'd have arranged to have him sectioned," Ros spits out.

"He'd also approached Lucas, and who knows else," Ruth adds.

"The intelligence service is a breeding ground for the mentally ill," Ros continues.

"Would you like Harry to call you?" Ruth suggests, knowing she'd rather be speaking to him.

"Only if he has the time. I'd hate to put him out."

Ruth is relieved when the call ends. Ros had always been hard work, but her injuries and her resultant disability has added another layer to whatever is eating away at her, a gnawing of rats desperate to break free from her damaged body.

* * *

Harry had promised to be at hers by nine, and so when he has not arrived by nine-thirty, Ruth tries calling him. When the call goes directly to voicemail she doesn't bother leaving a message.

By the time the front doorbell sounds it is almost nine-forty-five. Knowing how busy he has been all week, and that he would want to see her as much as she is looking forward to seeing him, Ruth is not angry, or even mildly irritated, but she _is_ hungry. She opens to door to him, standing aside while he fills her front hallway with his presence, a bag of food in one hand, and a bottle of wine in the other, a second bottle of wine tucked under his arm.

"Sorry," she says, "I forgot the wine."

"I thought you might," he says, before turning towards the open door to the living room, and the kitchen beyond that. "This way?"

Ruth is mildly surprised that he hadn't kissed her, but maybe, like her, Harry is hungry, so she hurries to catch up with him.

While Ruth gathers plates, wine glasses and cutlery, Harry takes the tubs of food from the bag, then wanders into her small kitchen in search of a bottle opener. "Where is it, Ruth?"

"The loo is upstairs."

"Not that. A corkscrew. Bottle opener."

She fusses over finding the bottle opener, only to discover it buried beneath the plastic bag in which Harry had carried the Indian takeaway. Then they have a brief discussion about which wine they should drink first - the red or the white. In the end Harry opens both, while Ruth watches him through her eyelashes, wondering whether he is irritated with her. It's just that as she sees it, which wine they drink first is unimportant. It is Saturday night, they are together in her flat, and they have agreed - somehow - to spend the night together.

Harry begins to explain why he was so late - he'd received a phone call which he'd needed to deal with straight away - and Ruth had brushed off his explanation with, "I don't have to know, Harry. You're here now, and that's all that matters."

He had seemed mildly put out, but she really didn't want or need an explanation. They were not yet a couple, so she has no right to expect explanations and excuses.

"Your things," she says, once they are sitting down, and beginning to eat, their earlier awkwardness lifting, like a fog in mid morning. "You did bring an overnight bag ... didn't you?"

Harry looks up from his lamb curry, a slight frown on his face. "Bag? I needed to bring a bag?"

"For your things. You know, toothpaste, shaving things, and ..."

"Clothes? I doubt I'll be needing clothes, Ruth. After all .."

Harry is sitting back in his chair, watching her, his gaze direct. He is sending her up, and she is determined to not be embarrassed, or put off in any way by his teasing. "You'll need a change of clothes, surely," she counters.

"It's in the car. I had to be sure we hadn't got out wires crossed."

"When have we ever got our wires crossed?" she asks, and she notices the lift of his eyebrows, although he says nothing more.

They eat in silence for some time, and Ruth wonders whether she's blown this chance with him. Something doesn't feel quite right. It's unlike Harry to be so quiet, but then he speaks, and all the skewed bricks of Ruth's shaky foundations gradually right themselves.

"I was about to leave home when my house phone rang," he begins, his attention not on her, but on his plate. "I only answered it out of curiosity, in case it was you, and you'd changed your mind." Ruth opens her mouth to speak, but he continues, ignoring her. "It was my daughter. We hadn't spoken in months, and I could hardly cut the conversation short. She wanted to talk. We haven't talked like that for .." and he glances up at her. "We haven't had a good conversation, a _proper_ conversation for .. a very long time. It's usually a few sentences snatched between her work commitments or mine. I wanted to tell her I was having dinner with you, but ..."

When he says nothing more, moving the remains of his lamb curry around his plate, Ruth suddenly gets up, taking the empty wine bottle to the sink, placing it on the side before grasping the edge of the sink with the fingers of both hands. She needs to ask the question. She _has_ to know.

"Harry," she says quietly, knowing he'll be listening, "why do you still love me?"

Her question hovers untethered and uncertain in the air around her, a private thought attaining form. Ruth waits, staring through the kitchen window, trusting Harry with catching her words, handling them gently, and with love.

"I don't know how not to love you, Ruth, and believe me when I say I've tried." She hears the scrape of his chair on the floorboards as he gets up, the soft fall of his footsteps as he moves closer. He is soon standing behind her, but not touching, the heat from his body like a fire at her back. "I guess that means you're stuck with me."

When she turns to him, she welcomes the softness in his eyes, and the love which shines from them, but still she drops her gaze.

"What's wrong, Ruth? Is it something I said?"

She shakes her head, and lifts her eyes to his. "It's what I did, when I stopped you speaking about why it was you were late. I'd believed the reason you were late didn't matter, when ... all along it mattered .. such a lot." Her eyes move from his face, over his shoulder, and then to the table .. anywhere but into those eyes.

"Ruth," he says gently, "please look at me."

And she does. She lifts her eyes to his face, and he can hardly bear to see the guilt there. "It's not that important. You weren't to know. I had my conversation with my daughter, and now I'm here ... where I want to be."

It is Ruth who takes a small step towards him, and he reaches out to pull her against him. When he feels her arms slide around his waist, he breathes out heavily, drawing her closer, pressing his face into her hair, surrounded by the warmth of her, the sweet smell of her.

"Why is everything with you so layered," he says, "and ... so .. bloody .. _complicated_? _This_ ," and he rubs his hands up and down her back, "shouldn't be this difficult."

It is only when he feels her relaxing against him that he knows they have made it through the moment. He lifts his head, pulling away slightly. He allows his gaze to move from her eyes, down her face to her mouth, where his eyes linger.

Harry has only just leaned in as if to kiss her when the moment is shattered by the ringtone of his mobile phone from inside the pocket of the jacket he'd left draped over the back of his chair. "I'm not answering that," he says, his voice tinged with irritation. "It's bound to be work."

But the phone continues to ring, and Ruth glances up. "Take it," she says, "or they'll just keep calling you."

Harry sighs heavily, squeezing Ruth's hand before he turns to answer his phone. His caller has timing infinitely worse than his own.


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N**_ _ **: Some M-rated content within this chapter.**_

* * *

By the time Harry's call ends, the atmosphere is no longer charged with promise. Ruth has poured them each a fresh glass of wine, so he again sits, and lifts the wine to his lips. "That was Lucas," he says, sitting back in his chair, gazing across the table to where Ruth sits curled in her own chair, the fingers of one hand fiddling with the stem of her glass, while her other hand is draped protectively across her lap. He manages to push aside the fear that by taking that phone call, Ruth has crept back into her private world, the space she shares with no-one. "He's done a ring-around," he continues, in an attempt to cover his own disappointment, "and so far there are around a dozen more agents - all somewhat disgruntled - who have been approached by Smallwood."

Ruth has been attempting to hide her own irritation, and is fast failing. "Why would he call you about that, especially on a Saturday night? It's hardly ground-breaking news."

"I suspect Lucas believes I have no life outside the Grid."

"I wonder why he thinks that."

Harry holds her eyes for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "I imagine," he begins slowly, "that he considers me to be permanently chained to my desk."

Ruth can't help herself. She begins smiling, and the smile becomes a soft giggle.

"What?" Harry asks, wondering whether he is - again - a source of fun for her.

She watches him for a long moment. "I'm imagining you tied to your desk with chains - one around each ankle, and another heavier chain around your waist."

Harry sighs. "There are days when I feel those chains."

"I know you do," Ruth says quietly.

They sip their wine, each wondering how best to return to the intimacy of only minutes earlier.

"I vote we retire to the sofa," Harry says after a long silence, getting to his feet, reaching out to Ruth with one hand, his glass of wine in the other.

"To sit?" she asks, imagining them writhing around together on the sofa, wine forgotten, buttons popping open as hands explore naked skin, their breath coming in gasps.

Harry stares at her. "I didn't wish to presume anything," he says, letting his hand drop to his side, before allowing the breath he'd been holding to slowly leave his lungs.

He breaks eye contact with her, and turns away. For a moment she thinks he might be leaving, but surely he'd not leave while there's still wine in his glass. He disappears into the gloom of the living room, and when she follows, she finds him lounging at one end of the sofa, leaving her plenty of room to choose how close to him she wishes to sit.

There is no need for the living room light; the light from the kitchen, while not direct, provides an intimate ambiance. Harry relaxes at one end, one arm slung along the back of the sofa, while Ruth feels herself sitting primly beside him, although not quite close enough to be touching him. She has to drop her eyes as she smiles to herself. She'd had a momentary flash of herself and Kevin Hartwig, both aged fourteen, sitting on the front bench seat of his dad's beloved Rover, neither knowing how to best address the arm he'd draped along the top of the seat, behind her shoulders. Ruth's memory of the moment ends there, what had happened next having disappeared into the swirling fog of her distant past, along with so many other moments.

She feels Harry's fingers tapping impatiently on the back of the sofa. It's late on Saturday evening, and she and Harry are alone in her flat. Ruth is exhausted from over-thinking the moment. Is it too soon after George's death? Then there was Ros's death, although Ros is no longer dead, so it no longer counts. Is anything which is happening now a good idea, given they have to work together?

Harry has also been thinking, but perhaps not as much or as deeply as his companion. He recognises that, with the momentum of their earlier closeness having been interrupted by the phone call, perhaps this is the right moment to run something by Ruth. "I'd been thinking," he begins, placing his glass of wine on the coffee table before again leaning back against the cushions, having removed his arm from the back of the sofa. "Ever since we discovered the truth about this Smallwood twin ... I believe I may have an alternate solution I can offer Ros."

"Surely she can't return to London," Ruth says, wondering what Harry is thinking, and whether he's given his idea thorough consideration.

"I know that." Harry turns his body on the sofa so that he half faces her. "I'd almost forgotten about a former colleague of mine who left the intelligence service early, and escaped to the US. He was injured in the line of duty - a bullet in his lower spine - and he ended up in a wheelchair. His wife threatened that if he didn't leave the service .. and the country ... he could expect to be served with divorce papers. This happened around five years after my own divorce. He contacted me only a few months ago, asking whether I had any disgruntled or injured operatives who might be seeking a career change."

"It sounds like he was attempting to recruit you," Ruth says quietly.

"Perhaps. I don't know why I hadn't thought of him when I first visited Ros at the goat farm." Seeing Ruth drop her head, he frowns. "What?" he asks, wondering what it is he'd said which she'd found so amusing.

"It's how you said `goat farm'. It sounded like a euphemism ... for Tring."

Harry twists his mouth to one side. "With Ros's current state of mind, that's not so far-fetched." He leans forward to again grasp his wine glass, and after taking a mouthful, he places it back on the table. "I think I need to give him a call."

" _Now_?"

"No, Ruth," he says gently, "not now. That would be ..." and he allows his shoulders to slump, recognising at last how poor is his own timing, and rather than sharing a romantic evening together, he and Ruth are again discussing work. He glances towards her, wondering how best to return to their former intimacy.

"That would be a very bad idea," Ruth finishes the sentence for him, before turning to face him. "Let's not talk any more about Ros," she says quietly, "or Lucas. Let's -"

The rest of that sentence is lost as Harry leans forward to cup her face with one hand, his eyes moving from her eyes, along the line of her jaw, and to her mouth, where his attention lingers. Ruth closes her eyes, just for a moment, and when she opens them, he very slowly trails his fingertips from her jaw, along her cheek, down her neck to her throat, and then to the opening of her shirt. His touch is soft and respectful, and Ruth feels a shiver pass through her body.

"Let's _what_ , Ruth? Tell me what you want." His voice is husky, even harsh, while his eyes glisten in the half-dark.

She wishes he'd just kiss her, bringing to an end the agony of anticipation, but she'd rather it be his idea. Suddenly it is all so simple. "I want _you_ ," she breathes, and before she can expand on that his fingers open the top button of her shirt, and then the second button, while his eyes never leave hers. "I want you to kiss me," she whispers before swallowing. "I want you to kiss me now," she adds, her voice almost inaudible.

Ruth can't remember any man ever having asked her what she'd wanted. What had happened between them had always been their idea, their desire, their time for doing it, and in their way, not that she'd complained. She hadn't known how to answer Harry when he'd asked. Was it a trick question? Perhaps he'd been teasing her, testing her, taunting her. Perhaps, after all, he'd meant it. _I want you_ , she'd said. She'd spoken her own truth, so she couldn't be clearer than that.

And having opened the last of her shirt buttons, his fingers hover over the bare skin of her stomach, and his eyes leave hers. He is gazing at her lilac-coloured bra, chosen for its scantiness, rather than any support it might provide.

"Take it off," she says.

"Take what off?"

"My bra. I want you to take it off."

Ruth thinks this is the strangest encounter she has ever had with a man. He is not grabbing at her, pawing her body. Harry is taking his time, The man must have nerves of steel.

Suddenly he stands, his movement shocking her. "Upstairs," he says, reaching for her hand.

He strides towards the stairs, and she hurries to catch up to him, her hand firmly in his grasp. "You still haven't kissed me," she says, hoping he can hear her above the sound of their footsteps.

It is once they reach the first landing that he stops, turns to her, leaning into her, and reaching around her before drawing her against him, kissing her slowly, and very thoroughly, devouring her, sliding his tongue inside her mouth, searching for her own tongue, sucking it into his mouth before allowing it free. Ruth almost whimpers. With just one kiss her legs have turned to water. When the kiss ends, she falls against him, while he unhooks her bra, sliding it from her arms, allowing it to drop to the floor like snow falling in winter.

"Happy now?" His voice rasps, his mouth close to her ear. Having temporarily lost the power of speech, Ruth nods against his shoulder.

Again, Ruth expects hands and lips and teeth to assault her breasts, but when she draws away from him it is to see him gazing at her chest. "You are exquisite," he says, before he reaches down, reverently cupping one breast with his hand, while he caresses her nipple with his thumb - over and over until she is almost mad with want.

"And you are magnificent," she replies, having dropped her glance to the front of his trousers, where his erection strains against the fabric. Had she actually said that aloud? She reaches out to glance two fingers along the length of him, down and then back, down and then back, feeling the responding twitch of his cock, accompanied by a quick intake of his breath. She lifts her eyes to see he is smiling at her.

"I can't take credit for something I inherited," he murmurs.

"Nor can I."

They continue up the stairs, his arm tucked around her waist. Once inside her bedroom Ruth leaves his side to hurry across the room to switch on a lamp, while Harry closes the door behind them. Then, as though a wind had whipped up inside the room, everything changes. They crash together beside the bed, his mouth again finding hers, while fingers grasp belts and buttons, and garments are strewn every which way across the floor - a chaos of clothing. When they fall on the bed together, Harry has to place his hands either side of her lest he squash her. He settles beside her, pulling her across his body, his arms holding her firm.

They are both naked .. on her bed .. at last, and it has taken them over four years to get from that first dinner to this bedroom. Miracles _do_ happen, Ruth thinks, as she bends her head to kiss him. His body, rounded and solid, is hot beneath her own, as she settles herself on top of him, her breasts pressed against his chest, while his cock seeks its home between her legs. She closes her eyes as his mouth meets hers. _My Harry_ , she thinks.

* * *

When Ruth wakes it is still dark, but the insistent call of her bladder has her sliding out of bed, and creeping across the room to retrieve her dressing gown from the back of the door.

Rather than returning to bed, she tiptoes downstairs, where she is greeted by a trail of clothing reminiscent of the aftermath of a hurricane. On the stairs, and then in the living room, her bra, shirt and shoes, and Harry's socks and shoes lie drunkenly around the coffee table, like guests who have passed out after a party. The wine glasses, wine barely touched, are still on the coffee table. She gathers both glasses, taking them to the kitchen, where she clears the table, and places the dishes and cutlery on the sink. Finding that she requires a few moments of solitude to catch up with the events of only hours earlier, Ruth settles at the table with a freshly made cup of tea, enjoying the quiet and calm of Sunday morning pre-dawn.

Harry had surprised her. She'd expected he'd be a good lover, but she hadn't reckoned on his sensitivity and attention to her needs. She smiles to herself, her memory of their lovemaking still fresh, drawing a response in her body, a familiar aching between her legs. And she'd turned down his marriage proposal! _Silly woman_. She is wondering how best to remedy that when she hears the flushing of the toilet upstairs. Less than a minute later, Harry appears in the kitchen doorway, dressed, but barefoot.

"You're leaving already?" Even to her own ears, her voice sounds whiny.

When he reaches her side he leans in to kiss her, a lingering, warm kiss. "Hardly," he says, drawing away. "I need to get my bag from the car, and for that I'll need shoes and socks."

Ruth watches as he retrieves his footwear, returning to her for a quick kiss before he leaves the flat. _What now_? She has no idea where this is all leading, but she now knows what it is she wants.

* * *

The first light of dawn finds them back in bed, curled together, sharing the occasional quick kiss while hands explore bare skin.

"I'm sorry," Ruth mumbles at last, believing Harry needs to hear her apology.

"About what?" While his arms remain around her, he pulls his head away to better see her face.

Seeing his half-smile, Ruth almost changes her mind, but continues regardless. "That I turned down your marriage proposal."

"I understand why you did, Ruth. Given I'm a patient man, I wasn't about to back off entirely. But why now?"

"Why do you think?" And she can't help her own smile, along with the flush which reddens her neck and cheeks. She doesn't wish to answer his question. It is too personal, too shaming that she'd believed it would be better were they to remain apart. Her capitulation had surprised even her.

"I have an inkling," he says before he presses his lips against her temple. In his opinion, her eager and ready response to him in bed is a dead giveaway.

Ruth's fingers have been caressing his stomach. Almost unconsciously she has been glancing her fingertips from one side of his belly to the other. As he reaches down to kiss her mouth her fingers move down his stomach, towards his pubic hair, where she feels his cock hardening against her wrist. Her eyes fly open, and she looks into his eyes. "I can't resist you," is all he says before he turns her to face him, pressing his pelvis against her, his intention clear.

This time their lovemaking is gentle and measured. While Ruth would be happy with hard and fast, Harry has other ideas. He brings her so close, and then backs away, burying his face in her neck, while his fingers glide away from her heat, and down her thigh. Then he slides those same fingers up her outer thigh to her hips, and then belly, before waiting for Ruth's inevitable objection.

Hearing Ruth's disapproving growl from deep in her throat, Harry smiles, and then trails his fingertips southwards once more, again settling between her legs.

"You are the most infuriating ..." and Ruth words fade as she responds to his skilful touch.

He could do this all day - bring Ruth close to climax before retreating - but he can't hold off his own completion for much longer. When at last he slides inside her, his movements are slow and languid, until he hears Ruth say his name, her tone pleading. He closes his eyes, gradually increasing speed until she cries out, her body grasping him in a regular pulsing rhythm. He can't hold back his climax ... or his joy. He is in bed with an extraordinary woman, a woman who appears to love him as he loves her.

Harry rolls onto his back, taking Ruth with him. "Christ," he says, "I am so knackered."

He barely hears Ruth's light giggle, as he closes his eyes, allowing sleep to envelop him once more.


	6. Chapter 6

Later that day - Sunday:

They walk to a nearby suburban pub for a late lunch. The pub serves an all-you-can-eat smorgasbord, which patrons can eat at tables inside, or in the vine-covered garden through folding doors. Being a fine day, Ruth suggests they eat in the garden, where Harry chooses a small table for two in a shaded corner.

Being together - properly together - in a public place is new for them, and while Harry concentrates on his meal, Ruth finds her eyes wandering around the garden, where pairs and groups of other patrons sit, eating their own meals, many chatting as they eat, regularly sipping from glasses of beer or wine. While Harry had bought a half pint for himself, Ruth has opted for water. With work the next day, she doesn't wish to muddy her mind.

Mostly, Ruth is wondering whether she and Harry appear to others as a normal couple. Since settling at their table, Harry appears preoccupied, which is not unusual for him, while she has been gazing around the area, over-thinking the situation, comparing them to other couples.

"Harry," she says at last, glancing up at him, as he lifts his eyes to hers, "do you think we're normal?"

His initial response is a warm smile. He then sips his lager before responding. "Define normal, Ruth."

"Well ... I've been watching other people, other couples, and .." she looks around her to illustrate her point, "everyone seems to have plenty to say to one another ... except us."

Harry takes his time, firstly swallowing his mouthful of food, before once more sipping from his glass. "Perhaps other ... couples haven't shared the last twenty or so hours like we have, Ruth. Maybe getting out of the house and away from distractions is the only option they have for spending time with one another."

Ruth concedes he has a point, but she's not yet convinced. "It's just that other than when we're at work, we don't ... talk much."

Harry has been watching her, and she has responded by avoiding his eyes. "Perhaps that's because we talk in other ways, Ruth." His voice, as he'd spoken the last sentence, had been quietly silky smooth. Ruth lifts her eyes to his to see him still watching her. She feels the familiar warmth in her chest as a flush travels up her throat, and to her cheeks. "I guarantee that in the past eighteen hours we've said more to one another ... in _other ways_ ... than most people here have shared with their better halves for the past month or more."

"Is being together ... for the long haul ... that difficult?" Ruth asks, sensing the tragedy that some couples face when they admit that they have nothing more to say to one another.

"It's not easy," Harry says soberly, and Ruth detects sadness in his voice. Perhaps he is mentally reliving his own marriage, gone but not forgotten, or perhaps he is thinking of other women he had loved only briefly.

Ruth had noticed a couple sitting at a table for two across the garden, beneath the vines, but in dappled sunshine. They are behind Harry, but the woman has been watching them, and Ruth has tried hard to not be distracted by the older woman's interest. "Harry," she says at last, focusing on his eyes as she drops her voice, "don't look now, but there's a couple sitting behind you, and the woman has been showing an odd interest in us."

That grabs his attention. He watches Ruth closely while he formulates a reply. "Describe the woman," he says.

"She's around your age, I guess, well dressed, average build, attractive, brunette - what?"

Harry has sat back, the tension leaving his body. "I thought it might have been my ex-wife, but given she now lives in North London, there'd be little reason for her to be this far from home. Besides, she's blond."

"We're about to find out," Ruth says quickly, concentrating on Harry, while in her peripheral vision she is aware of the woman crossing the garden towards their table. "She's just about to -"

"Harry?" the woman says, "It _is_ Harry ... isn't it?"

Ruth watches in horror as Harry turns, and then in one fluid movement he stands, reaching out to grasp the woman's elbow in one hand, before kissing her on each cheek.

"Norah," he says smoothly, "it's been ..."

"It's been over a decade, and ..." and the woman turns to Ruth in an unspoken question.

"Norah," Harry says quickly, turning towards Ruth, while dropping his hand from the woman's elbow, "this is Ruth, my -"

His introduction of her is truncated when Ruth rises quickly from her chair, reaching out to shake the hand Norah thrusts in her direction. "I'm Ruth. I'm Harry's ..." What _is_ she exactly to Harry, anyway? "I'll just ..." and she points towards the folding doors which lead inside, before hurrying away from them, leaving both Harry and Norah staring after her.

"Did I ... is something wrong?" Norah asks, turning towards Harry.

"I suspect she just needed the loo in a hurry," he muses, watching Ruth's back as she disappears inside, swallowed by the throng of people gathered around the buffet.

* * *

Almost an hour passes before the incident in the pub garden is raised. By the time Ruth had again joined Harry at their table Norah and her companion had left. Ruth had decided it would be best were Harry to broach the subject of how he'd known Norah, but by the time they were ready to leave, he still hadn't said anything, so she concludes that maybe Norah had not been all that important to Harry after all. They had walked back to Ruth's flat in near silence, until Harry had grasped Ruth's hand, threading his fingers through hers. "I think it might rain soon," he'd said, gazing up at the sky.

"It's always about to rain in London," Ruth had replied.

Harry had offered to make them coffee, sending Ruth into the living room. When he joins her, a mug of hot coffee in each hand, rather than sit beside her on the sofa, he chooses a chair across the coffee table from her. "I think we need to talk," he says quietly.

"I'm fine with ... Norah. I have no need to know your history with her."

"What if I have a need to tell you?" he counters, sitting back in his chair, watching her. "I need you to know me, Ruth. I need you to know who I am."

"I already know who you are. Who you were in a previous life is not my concern." As firm as her voice sounds from inside her head, she's not sure she believes what she'd just said. She knows Harry is about to share with her his history with Norah, and Ruth really doesn't want to know. What if he'd once loved her? What had happened between them to destroy that love? On this day, after the sweetness of the night they'd shared, followed by the strange encounter at the pub, Ruth would rather remain forever in the dark about the attractive Norah.

"In this case, Ruth, it does." He sips his coffee before placing the mug on the coffee table. He waits until Ruth lifts her eyes to his. He sees the hurt there, and he is determined for his love for her to mollify that hurt.

"You don't have to tell me about her," Ruth says, wondering what had happened to their earlier intimacy.

"But I do. I learned an important lesson from Norah, and it now appears that you may be the one to benefit most from that lesson." Harry sits back, holding her eyes. "I met Norah at one of those receptions, the ones where a few politicians turn up - often with their mistresses - to rub shoulders with members of the intelligence service. It was around ten years after my marriage had ended ... messily, and acrimoniously. I'd become a serial philanderer, although on that night I attended the reception alone." Harry checks that Ruth is still listening, and detecting her interest, he continues quietly. "That night Norah and I talked. She and her husband had separated over a year earlier, but given they ran a tech development business together, they'd remained on friendly terms. Norah and I began seeing one another. I found that I liked her. She didn't pretend to be something she was not, and she would catch me out if I tried to play games ... a habit I'd developed in my previous dealings with women. We ... dated for almost six months. We were exclusive with one another, which I'd not been with any woman since the early days of my marriage to Jane. I only ever stayed overnight at her place; I never invited her back to mine, and she never asked why. I still needed a place which was just for me. The question of living together was never raised, although I thought about it, but decided against it. Then ... when we'd been seeing one another for almost six months, Norah began cancelling our dinner dates. We'd not seen one another for almost a month when she agreed to meet me for a drink after work. That's when she told me."

"She ended it?"

"She did, but not in the way, or for the reason I'd expected. She told me her husband had recently been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, and he only had a few months to live. He'd contemplated moving in with his parents, as he was no longer able to work, or properly care for himself. Norah had moved back into the house to take care of him, and in so doing, had realised that her relationship with me had been little more than an escape from her real life. I was more upset about this than I'd expected." Harry takes a deep breath before sipping his coffee. Again he glances up at Ruth, who is watching him closely.

"So, you loved her," Ruth says quietly, almost reverently.

"It was only as she was informing me of her decision to move back with her husband to care for him that I entertained the idea that I probably did love her. The realisation shocked me. Until then I'd only ever loved my mother and my wife. As Norah and I said goodbye for the last time, it occurred to me that she'd reminded me a lot of Jane. She was confident and elegant, and didn't really need me, or any man, and that made her very attractive to me. I'd wanted her to need me, and she hadn't."

Ruth is watching him closely, surprised by his level of disclosure ... his honesty. "And the man she was with today?"

"After her husband died she ran the business alone until she met John - her current husband. They've been married five years, and she told me they're very happy." Again he sighs. "She also told me today that she was thankful for the time we spent together. After you took off -"

"I needed the loo, and I thought I'd leave you alone with her ... to catch up."

"I do understand that, Ruth."

"Are you thankful for the time you were with her?"

"Of course," he says quickly. "By being exclusive with her, I learned that perhaps I wasn't a bastard after all."

"You believed you were?"

"Even you have called me an illegitimate offspring of unmarried parents, Ruth." When her brow furrows, he explains. "After the EERIE exercise. You gave me both barrels."

"That was different. It was work, and you were playing a role. I was shocked by how .. convincing you'd been, and I was annoyed that I'd not been able to see through your act."

Harry swallows. "I played a role with most women I was attracted to, also. And then, a few short years after Norah, you joined Section D, and to keep up with you, I've had to change."

There is a lull in their conversation, while each drinks their coffee. Something he'd said has stuck in Ruth's head, and she has to pursue it. "Harry ..." she begins carefully, "are you attracted to me because you believe I don't need you?"

"No, Ruth, although it's clear to me that you've never needed me, and mostly you haven't especially wanted me ... until now. It's your uniqueness and your genuine warmth I love. I've never before in my life met anyone quite like you. I'm just relieved to have at last ... found you."

Ruth nods before dropping her eyes. She understands his deeper meaning. This last week, he has found _her_ ; they have found each other.

"I have some calls to make," Harry says at last, "and one of those is to Rod Delahunty." Seeing Ruth's frown, he explains. "Rod Delahunty lives in Seattle. He's the former intelligence agent who was shot in the back, and whom I'm hoping can offer Ros work."

"You're going into work?"

"No. I'll make the calls from my office at home." Again he notices Ruth's face fall. "And I need an early night, Ruth, but ..." and here he hesitates, not sure that he has chosen the right moment to be mentioning their future. "I'd rather like it if we could spend each weekend together ... like this." When she doesn't object, he rattles on. "I thought we could spend next weekend at mine - Friday night to Monday morning."

"That's ... quite a suggestion, Harry."

He watches her closely. Her eyes are shining, so she is clearly not against the idea. "Or we can play it by ear ... if you like."

"I rather like the idea of spending each weekend together. It will give me ... give _us_ .. something to look forward to at the end of each working week."

Harry quickly stands, and joins Ruth on the sofa. Her response has left him so relieved that he acts without thinking. It's as though she can read his intent. As he sits she turns towards him, reaching for his face, which she holds between her hands. Their snog is so spontaneous, so enjoyable that they end up stretched out together on the sofa, legs entangled, her hands having pulled his shirt from his trousers, to give her fingers access to the skin of his back, while he caresses her curves through her clothing. They'll not go further, not when Harry has announced his intention to leave for home.

* * *

They are standing together just inside Ruth's front doorway. Harry has already put his bag in his car, returning to say goodbye. Ruth notices an odd look on his face, as though he is nervous about something.

"I need to ask you something," Harry says at last, having decided to bite the bullet.

"Ask away."

"Do you love me?"

"That's rather a ... direct question," she says, briefly dropping her eyes.

"Do you?"

She then lifts her chin, and holds his gaze, suddenly bold. "You know I do."

"But I don't, Ruth. You've never said the words to me."

"Haven't I? I was sure I had ... while we were in bed ... I seem to remember ..."

"No, Ruth. That was me telling you I love you."

"Well, I do ... love you."

Harry appears happy with that. He kisses her carefully, pulls away to gauge her reaction, and apparently satisfied, he leaves with a quick squeeze of her hand, and a "See you in the morning."

Ruth stands at the door, watching him as he climbs into his car, waves to her, and then drives away. Of course she loves Harry. She's loved him for years. Even when she was assuring George that she loved him, she still held her love for Harry close to her heart, protecting it with her silence and her natural reserve. She has little doubt she will always love Harry. Talking openly about her love for him, even with him - _especially_ with him - is something she finds difficult.

Ruth closes the door and heads back into the living room, gathering their coffee mugs, taking them into the kitchen. _I love Harry,_ she says aloud, enjoying the sound of it rolling around her mouth, and then into the air. Perhaps, after all, all she needs is to practise saying the words aloud.

* * *

 ** _A/N: The 7th, and final chapter will be posted on Tuesday next._**


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N : This is the final chapter of this story. Thanks to all who have followed it this far, and as always to the generosity of the reviewers.**_

* * *

8 weeks later - Saturday afternoon:

Given it's November, Harry had booked them into a comfortable hotel in Heybridge, where they will spend just one night. Ruth had flopped onto the bed to test its bounciness, giving it the thumbs up. "Perfect for a good night's sleep, and ... any other activity we can think of while we're here."

"I'm all for a good night's sleep," Harry had mumbled moodily.

"We'll see," Ruth had replied, confident she could convince him to change his mind.

"I haven't slept properly since ..."

"I know, but lying awake for hours reliving past events won't bring Lucas back."

"I don't want the bastard back, Ruth. He was planning to sell Albany to the Chinese, and I still have no idea how he knew where to find it."

"Monetary gain is a powerful motivator. I imagine he hadn't expected the Chinese to kill him, rather than pay for it. I'd say he had a fitting ending."

On the weekend immediately following Lucas North's betrayal, Ruth had lain awake beside Harry while he tossed and turned, unable to sleep. What began as a soothing touch of her fingers to his skin soon became a deep massage to the muscles of his shoulders as she straddled his back, her bottom resting on his buttocks. Harry had groaned as she'd released the knots of tension in his shoulder muscles, and when she leaned down to place a kiss on the back of his neck he rolled over so that she was then sitting across his lap. They'd watched one another for a long moment before she had reached down once more, this time to kiss his mouth. What followed was a flurry of clothing being tossed aside, before they came together quickly and noisily.

Afterwards Harry had talked quietly while Ruth lay beside him, listening. He had shared with her his long history of betrayals - from Northern Ireland to the recent past - and then when he'd finished talking, he'd kissed her before turning on his side, ready for sleep. Long after Harry's breathing had deepened, Ruth had lain awake, silently mulling over his story, in awe of his resilience, his persistence in a job which could easily have destroyed him. At last she understood his silences, his melancholy, and his regular need for solitude.

By the time Ruth herself was on the cusp of sleep, she admitted to herself that she had never loved him more than she did in that moment. Harry would have to be the strongest man she had ever known, and she felt privileged to be loved by him. She'd turned on her side to face him. "I love you," she'd said aloud and unheard, while Harry slept on.

* * *

They have reached Landsby, and Harry decides to drive past the hotel and the village square. "Nothing's changed here," he says quietly.

"Did you expect it to have changed?"

"Not really. I suppose I thought that, given the events of the past few weeks ..." and they drive slowly past the square, and then on to the road towards the goat farm. "I still think I should have seen it coming," Harry muses, referring to Lucas' betrayal.

"You're not clairvoyant, Harry. We should all have seen what he was up to."

"But I'm meant to have my fingers on all available pulses," Harry says, and Ruth can detect the ribbon of guilt threaded between his words.

"If I had my way," she says quietly, gazing out the car window towards the saltmarsh, "there'd only be one pulse your fingers would be searching for."

She feels him glance at her, so she turns to him to see him smiling. "And a fine pulse it is, too, especially right _there_ ," he says, reaching out with the tips of two fingers to touch the hollow in her throat.

She bats his hand away. "Eyes on the road," she says.

"I'd find that spot in the dark while blind-folded." His voice is low and seductive, and Ruth suspects they might be doing more than sleeping when this day ends.

Harry suddenly pulls the car off the road, and kills the engine. "Look at that, Ruth," he says, his gaze focused on something behind her, beyond the confines of the car. "Last time I was here all I could think about was Ros, and the miracle of her survival ... and you, of course."

Harry is leaning towards her, and his eyes momentarily focus on her. He is close enough that she can feel his breath on her cheek.

Ruth turns in her seat to see Osea Island floating between a grey sea and grey sky while nestled in the bosom of the saltmarsh in the foreground. They both focus on their environment for a long moment before Ruth turns her attention to Harry, leaning closer to him to wind her hands around his neck, drawing his face to her with the press of her fingers on the back of his head. As expected, he doesn't object, willingly meeting her lips with his own.

Harry is the only man Ruth has known who can kiss her with soft and supple lips, pushing her to the edge of distraction while remaining apparently unmoved. She slides one hand along his inner thigh, and that is when he slowly draws away from her.

"You know we can't take this any further, Ruth."

"I know, but ..." and she sits up, breaking contact with him.

"But what?"

"I've always fancied the idea of being closeted in a car with you, and taking a good snog to its natural conclusion."

Harry is watching her, his pupils dilated. "And for how long have you ... entertained this fantasy?"

"Years." Ruth looks away from him, through her window through which she can see Osea, the skies above it low and threatening. "It was after Colin Wells died, and you drove me back to the Grid after the meeting in Adam's flat." She turns back to him then. "That was the first time I thought it might be nice, although I can also remember thinking you were probably too ... mature .. to ever seriously consider it."

"The last time I had sex in a car I was twenty-two. Believe me when I say it's an uncomfortable experience."

Harry has this thing he does whenever they move too close to one another when the time or place isn't quite right. He erects an invisible wall between them, shutting her out, keeping her at arm's length. She turns her head so that she is again focused on the island in the Blackwater, and it is then, while she is staring at the island without really seeing it, that Ruth recognises that Harry is only doing what she had done to him for years. This hollowness she feels, this brief loss of contact between them is how he must have felt during the long years since she had turned down his second invitation to dinner. He is protecting himself, just as she had been.

"I'm so sorry," she says quietly, turning her head just enough that she can see him in her peripheral vision.

"It wasn't that bad, Ruth, but the cramped space detracted from the experience."

"Not that," and it is then she turns to him. "I'm sorry I pushed you away all these years." He sighs, but says nothing, watching her, perhaps determining whether she really means what she says. "It wasn't fair," she continues, "to you, and it wasn't fair to us."

This time Harry responds with a nod. "I know," he says. He makes no move to touch her, but she notes the softening around his mouth as he relaxes. Ruth feels her body relaxing in sync with Harry's clear unbending, as together they unwind their combined mistakes from the past, rolling them up to be shelved with so many other memories.

Having sat in silence for some minutes, Ruth wonders why Harry hasn't started the engine and driven off. Before she has a chance to speak, he answers her question, still unspoken.

"I've just realised something," he says quietly, staring through the windscreen at the road ahead. "Today will in all probability be the last time I see Ros."

Ruth knows he is right. She thinks to mention that he had already believed he'd seen and spoken to Ros for the last time, but she remains silent. Harry had already lost Ros once. Perhaps the prospect of losing her again is just one loss too many.

"Surely you can still communicate by phone," she suggests, just as Harry starts the engine, easing the car back onto the tarmac.

"I've advised her to cut all ties with me," he says soberly, " for her own safety."

Ruth doesn't know how to reply to that, so she reaches out and gently squeezes his arm before returning her hand to her lap. While Ruth enjoys Harry's company, feeling blessed that he loves her, there are times when he confounds her with his knotty, entangled web of emotions. She has found that he is rarely ever genuinely happy for long. The pressure of his job, the well-being of his team, his long history of betrayal all weigh heavily upon him. Despite that, she wouldn't have him any other way, and nor would she want to be with anyone else.

* * *

"What is it between you and Ros?"

Ruth quickly lifts her head from the group of kids, each one vying for their attention, butting their heads against her hands as she reaches out to touch them. She is so used to Harry's sharp observations, and sometimes sharper tongue; she hadn't expected such an observation from the calm and gentle Howard.

"Ros and I ..." she begins, not sure that she wants to be exposing herself to this man, harmless as he seems.

"It's just that I was trained to observe," Howard continues quietly, "just like you."

"You were ... one of _us_?" When he nods and smiles, she turns away for a moment, before again giving him eye contact. "When?"

"I resigned from the service eighteen years ago. I'd just turned forty. You know what it's like, Ruth ..." Ruth nods. She certainly does. "After an especially messy operation, I took leave, and never went back." Howard glances down at Ruth. "A year later I met Gail, and after a while we bought this place. It was her idea to set it up as a recovery unit for intelligence personnel. I was against the idea at first, but ... it's now an integral part of our operation, and to my surprise I find that I am at last a contented man."

"Are you happy?"

"As happy as I'll ever be."

Ruth finds Howard's voice to be soothing. He is also a good listener. A part of her would like to know why he'd ever believed the intelligence service to be a suitable career choice for him, but maybe his experience as a spy was for the express purpose of leading him to this farm, and to Gail.

"Ros and I have a history," Ruth says quietly, pulling her hand from a particularly persistent little goat as it attempts to nibble her fingers. "I don't especially wish to talk about it. I find it difficult to talk about, even with Harry, so I .."

"So you keep it to yourself." Ruth nods, lifting her eyes to Howard, who has stood up straight, moving away from the fence which separates the goats from the humans. "Perhaps you need to speak with her one last time," he says gently, stepping away from her as another figure joins them, her approach almost silent.

"I thought we could talk out here," Ros says, nodding to Howard, who quickly leaves them on their own, hurrying along the pathway towards the concrete shed.

Ruth is surprised to note that Ros no longer requires a wheelchair, although she walks with the assistance of a wooden walking stick, one hand grasping the curved handle. "I mainly need it for negotiating steps," Ros says, noting Ruth's eyes on the walking stick. "I regard it as insurance."

"Is Harry not joining us?" Ruth asks, glancing over Ros's shoulder.

"Gail is giving him tea and scones," Ros replies, lifting her eyebrows in an unspoken editorial.

Ruth feels a small stab of irritation that Harry had not thought to join her and Ros, his presence hopefully providing a buffer between herself and the sharp edges of Ros's personality. She is also irritated with Ros's unspoken implication towards Harry sharing afternoon tea with Gail. Is she suggesting that Harry might have a wandering eye, or that he has no need to be eating afternoon tea? Perhaps the lift of her eyebrows was little more than a habitual response, and so means nothing at all. Ruth is already exhausted from being in Ros's presence, and it's been less than three minutes. She just wishes Harry had thought to join them, if only to provide moral support.

"Although I have to say," Ros continues, gazing towards the concrete and steel building into which Howard had disappeared, "that Harry is looking relaxed, so you must be doing something right." Ruth's mouth is open, with no suitable reply at hand, when Ros turns back to her. "I mean the two of you together, not some magical mystery formula you have with him. Sometimes all it takes for a man to relax into his own skin is for him to be with the right woman ..."

 _Well_ ... she hadn't expected that.

".. and so," Ros continues, "you've both clearly made the right choice by being together."

"Did Harry tell you that ... that we're together?"

"He didn't have to. It's written all over both your faces. I must say I'm just a little bit jealous; not about Harry, because he's hardly my type. He's too pig-headed by far."

Which is when Ruth has to stifle a laugh by coughing.

"You alright, Ruth? You haven't said much."

"That's because you're saying enough for both of us," Ruth says quietly.

"I always did appreciate a captive audience," Ros muses, reaching out tentatively towards the group of kids, "but I don't fully appreciate the bucolic life Gail and Howard have here. Too earthy by far," she adds, wrinkling her nose.

"I take it you needed to speak with me," Ruth says, hoping to bring the meeting to a rapid close, so that she can get back to Harry.

"Harry and I have discussed ways in which he and I might be able to communicate ... once I'm in the US. To directly communicate is not the safest option, so we came up with an idea ..."

"You want me to be a go-between?" Ruth had expected something like this, and although she's annoyed with Ros, she knows that both Harry and Ros will be happier were they to have a safe option for communicating.

"You're free to say no, Ruth, but I have spoken at length with Howard, and it was his idea to set up a relay system - from me to this farm, then to you, and from you to Harry. What do you think?"

"I'm not prepared to use the Grid's communication systems."

"And I'm not asking you to. That would be ... foolish."

Ruth's mind is working quickly. "I'll ask Tariq Masood to set up something off-Grid, and when that's done, I can test it by contacting Howard." Ros nods, and Ruth sees the beginning of a smile around her mouth. "I'm sure we can make it work," she continues.

Ros nods, gazing again towards the newest shed. "I promised Howard I'd give him a hand," she says, "so ... I guess this is farewell." Ros moves her walking stick to her left hand, freeing her right hand for Ruth to shake. "Truce?" she says, tilting her head to one side, in much the same way as Harry.

"I'm prepared to work with you, Ros. I hope that with this job in Seattle you find ... some value, and purpose."

Ruth finds her own little speech to be a trifle pompous. _It must be Harry's influence,_ she thinks, before she smiles, offering that smile to Ros. She shakes the hand offered, before turning and making her way back to the house. She doesn't look back, so she doesn't see Ros watching her all the way.

* * *

On the drive back to Heybridge, Harry pulls the car into a lay-by, one designed especially to capture the best view of Osea from the road. Ruth watches Harry as he sits, staring towards the island, both hands on the steering wheel, as she waits for him to speak.

"Did Ros tell you anything about her job in Seattle?" he asks at last.

"Nothing. We only discussed the communications relay." Ruth decides to postpone telling Harry about Ros's conclusions about their relationship.

Harry nods. "I'm hoping that once it's up and running, you'll be free to drop out of the relay."

Ruth nods. She'd been hoping the same thing. To her, a four-way communications relay sounds messy.

"Rod Delahunty's business is officially about investigating insurance fraud. Initially Ros will be looking into insurance claims, but ..." and he turns to look directly at Ruth.

"It's a front for something else?"

Harry nods. His expression is serious, but Ruth knows him well enough to read in his face his fear for Ros. "It's going to be dangerous work, and she may not survive."

His voice is so quiet Ruth barely hears him. "This is intelligence work ... isn't it?"

"It is. Delahunty plans to send her undercover. She'll effectively be an asset for Six, joining their team on the north-west coast. There are gangs, and gangsters, and that's just the CIA ..."

"It sounds risky."

He turns towards her once more, gazing longingly into her eyes. "I feel so bad for suggesting she go there, although ... she's looking forward to it."

"I think Ros works best under that kind of pressure."

Harry's face softens in a smile, and he lifts one hand to glance his fingers across her cheek, lingering for a long moment below her bottom lip. Ruth grasps his hand in both hers, pressing her lips to his knuckles. "I don't want you to take any risks, Ruth. I couldn't bear to lose you."

Again, Ruth presses her lips to his knuckles in a lingering kiss. "I have no intention of leaving you," she says.

"But I suspect Ros feels free to take all the risks available to her," he says wearily, threading his fingers through hers. "I don't expect her to make old bones."

Ruth nods. She has suspected a similar outcome for Ros. "Perhaps having you to .. consult might be enough incentive for her to ... avoid unwise actions."

"That's the main reason I've agreed to set up the communication relay."

Dear Harry. Still saving the world, one person at a time. "I love you," Ruth says quietly, and this time it is Harry who lifts her hand to his lips.

"I suggest that after dinner we do something more than sleep," he growls, before dropping her hand and starting the car.

Ruth smiles as Harry guides the car onto the road. He can be such a pushover, which is one of the many reasons she loves him. And it has only taken her four years to reach that blindingly obvious conclusion.

And to think that Craig had described Harry as `Mr Average'. What would he know? Average is something Harry will never be.


End file.
